


If You Ever Make a Mess, I'll Do Anything for You

by sonnie



Series: The Cost of Craving Dark Instead of Light [4]
Category: Pacific Rim
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Reverse psychology, Shovel Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonnie/pseuds/sonnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monica Schwartz decides to give Hermann the shovel talk.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There are varying opinions regarding its success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Ever Make a Mess, I'll Do Anything for You

Hermann doesn’t consider himself a particularly brave or cowardly person. He’s obedient and deferential to authority—to people that earn it. Most assume he was intimidated by the late Stacker Pentecost, and that’s not quite true. Mako Mori calls it respect, and so does he; Hermann was never _scared_. He just appreciates boundaries, and Marshal Pentecost was always considerate of them. 

Monica Schwartz sees where the line is drawn and starts on the other side of it. That is much more threatening. 

The last time Monica was in the same room with Lars Gottlieb, she told him off because his Wall of Life was built on the exploitation of poor people stranded on the coast. She said he was a dumbass for building a glorified pet fence when kaiju had been showing up for years with goddamn wings. She chewed him out for trying to use this as a grand political scheme to achieve elected office. She asked, _rather loudly_ , if anyone had seen his pair of tiny balls anywhere, because only spineless punks run away when the world’s about to end. (She also threw her drink in his face, but Hermann actually finds this really funny.)

She may not look threatening, but Sarah Connor and Ellen Ripley don’t have anything on this woman. She could take down killer robots and evil aliens and _look stunning while doing it_. In fact, Monica’s lovelier than any woman her age has any business still being: her face remains unlined, her platinum blonde hair has gracefully defied turning gray, and her body still phenomenal. (It’s possible her alcohol is distilled with water taken directly from the fountain of youth.) Her clothing isn’t gaudy but he recognizes the Chanel logo on her scarf and the distinct red sole of her Louboutin shoes. 

The room is remarkably cold, rather like his host. Hermann’s leg is really bothering him, but squirming is unseemly, especially when Monica Schwartz has maintained eye contact for the past forty seconds. The woman could stare down a cat—in fact, has eyes the same feline shade of green. He swears if she doesn’t soon blink he’s going to swipe some of her DNA and ask Newt to test it.

“So,” Monica drawls elegantly. Somehow her inflection crafts that sentence fragment into a complete and possibly terrifying thought. 

Hermann just wants to know what “so” could possibly mean. Newton’s emotional tics are complex enough to require footnotes; Monica Schwartz needs to come with a table of contents, glossary of terms, and several appendices of supplemental material. 

“Before we get started, I just want to tell you that I sent my niece out there to keep Newton distracted, so don’t expect your white knight to storm in here and rescue you,” Monica informs him bluntly, pouring herself some very old, very expensive Scotch. She doesn’t offer him any. “Ugh, I’ve never done this before.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Monica waves her hand dismissively and Hermann wonders if she’s already been drinking. “I know my son got around plenty when he taught at MIT, but Newton’s never brought anyone home before. He’s not really the type where things ever get that far. He doesn’t like relationships.”

_Okay_. Hermann can deal with how inappropriate this is because Newton pushes that particular button in every conversation they ever have. It’s no stretch that Monica’s similarly frank. She enjoys making people uncomfortable on purpose.

“But I think I need to make some kind of effort here, for Newton’s sake. I needn’t bother with the pretense of being a very concerned parent, since you’ve been inside my son’s head and know I’m actually an awful mother.”

He’s somewhat at a loss: is he supposed to say something or let her continue talking? He’s not sure. Monica definitely isn’t fishing for compliments or looking for him to contradict her, so Hermann fusses with his cane in an uncommonly nervous gesture while she continues to inspect him steadily.

“I guess the fact you’re here at all after seeing his mind should probably be enough,” Monica muses. She drains her glass in one leisurely swallow and taps her red-lacquered nail on the brim before adding, “I’m going to need a little more from you than that, however.”

Dropping his cane against the chair beside him, Hermann leans forward in his seat, not quite believing what he’s hearing. “Is this a test?”

“Look, you were raised by Lars Gottlieb, the world’s biggest asshole. It’s hard not to hold his sins against you when I know how easy it is to pass on all your bad qualities to your kid. Jacob’s few flaws are wholly absent in Newton, so that means one hundred percent of all that shit you deal with comes from my side, and I have to know you can handle it.” 

Hermann is seething. “You think you have a right to do that? You don’t know me at all and you barely know your son.”

“I know him well enough to know that abandoning him really fucked him up. Yeah, it’s my fault, but it’s too late to change what I did. The only thing I can do now is ensure it won’t happen again.”

Monica casually lights a cigarette, and all Hermann can do in that moment is think about Newton.

“Your son would be appalled that you’re smoking, considering his uncle and father died from lung cancer. You have no right to lecture me about leaving if you’re just going to go out the same way they did.”

Jewel-green eyes roll up towards the ceiling as she exhales a thick plume of smoke. “Christ, you’re even more dramatic than Lars. Look, I’m going to level with you right now because you seem at least marginally more intelligent than your father. Leave Newton. Do it soon. You’ll be free, and it’ll be before you can do any long-term damage, before he gets _attached_.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this right now,” Hermann huffs, moving to stand. 

Monica launches herself at him suddenly, her foot knocking the cane out of his reach into her waiting palm. She lays the cane across her lap when she seats herself a moment later.

“Take your seat again, Doctor Gottlieb. We’re not finished talking.” Monica smiles thinly.

Newton never mentioned his mother possessed superhuman speed. Hermann can’t help it, his jaw actually drops open; she just _stole_ his motherfucking cane. Goddamn it. “ _Are you mad?_ ”

“Possibly,” Monica answers honestly. “Stop panicking, your mouth is flapping open like a fish. It’s not attractive to look at.”

Hermann gingerly flops back into his chair, unable to prevent his thin fingers from gripping the arms ferociously. He’s mature enough not to cause a scene, even if Monica isn’t. 

“If you can’t sit through an unpleasant conversation with me, how do you expect to deal with my son? Oh, I’m sure you put up with him professionally for years when you were stationed together, but that was out of your control. You had no choice at the time—a world to save and all that. But you do have a choice right now.”

Monica levels her gaze at him and Hermann is struck by the vibrancy, how very similar it is to Newt’s. It’s such an uncommon shade—untainted by blue the way emeralds are—but pure, peerless green. The scientific part of his mind supplies the word “peridot” and the long-defunct creative part would probably deliver the same one. But Monica is nothing like Newton, not in a way that really _means_ something, and he wants her to know that.

“You said earlier that Newton is the way he is because of you, but I don’t think you really understand what that means. If he’s as weak as you assume, he would have crumbled every time you left him, which was admittedly more than once. But he went on to be a successful professor and ultimately helped save the world, so perhaps he’s not as damaged as you’d like to think.”

Monica merely raises a perfect brow in his direction. “I’m not saying he’s a total fuckup, I’m saying that he’s never going to be content with whatever you two have together. Newton spent the past ten years studying kaiju, and now that they’re not around to provide him with fresh samples and new data, what is he going to do? He’s going to agonize over trying to top what he’s already done and he’s never going to succeed. He’s not even thirty six and his life’s work is already finished, his legacy to the world complete. He’s won’t settle for writing a book or going back to teaching; he’s going to seek out something new and exciting and _dangerous_.”

Hermann knows every word she says is true—they voice thoughts he’s had half a dozen times since the Breach was closed. It’s not like Newton knows everything there is to know about kaiju. He’s got a good twenty five years left in the field and he’ll still only truly scratch the surface. But there’s only a finite amount of specimens left and he’ll hardly be the only one researching them. Once they’re gone, they’re gone, and the current supply is rather meager. He’ll eventually run out. And Newton does the most reckless things when he’s trying to prove one of his theories…

Perhaps this is all showing on his face, because Monica looks a tad bit sympathetic. “Hermann, you can’t make him happy—that’s solely up to him and not your responsibility. But why do you want to attach yourself to someone so unstable and unpredictable?—a man that you’ll never manage to be happy with? You have nothing to prove.”

“Of course I have nothing to prove to you!” Hermann snaps. “If you think you and Newton are so similar, perhaps you should be more concerned that _he_ will leave _me_ before _I_ could think to leave _him_. You call my father a coward when you run away from _everything!_ ”

“I run away from from people I’ll wind up hurting and the people that will hurt me. If you had an ounce of common sense or self-preservation, you’d do the same. You have to look out for yourself, because Newton never will. 

“Newton risked his life for the _entire planet_.”

“Because he wanted to be a rock star, Doctor,” Monica insists. “Even when he’s doing good things he can’t help but be egotistical. He hooked himself up to an alien brain for science and glory, not out of any selfless desire to save the human race. Let me be frank: he came into this world because of a spontaneous moment of passion and he’s going to leave the same way. This is not a man who’ll die peacefully in his bed from old age. He’s had near misses already, some of which you’ve actually witnessed.”

It strikes a nerve, how lightly she mentions the fact Hermann almost saw him die, how he practically abandoned him to his own devices so he could give martyrdom his best shot. 

“Hermann, you’ll never be able to convince him that he’s wrong about anything. You’ve just got to hope that you’re not collateral when he is. The more you try and prove you’re right, the more he’ll fight you. It’s in his blood. You’ll get tired of it, one day. If he thinks you’re dependable, he might actually attempt to rely on you. Save yourself from the guilt of leaving once he has. Yes, I’m telling you to hurt him now, but only because the longer you wait the more it will hurt him later.”

It’s the same kind of rage that fills him when he’s arguing with Newt, Hermann realizes, that’s making his mouth twist into an ugly snarl. He’s plenty irritable but nothing ever _really_ rouses his ire in the way that arguing with Newton does, and he’s learning very quickly that Newton came by it honestly. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, not when that tree is Monica Schwartz and her particular brand of psycho has the ability to taint everything her roots and branches come into contact with.

(Hearing Newton casually mention, “hey, my mom is kind of crazy” one or twenty times is nothing quite like experiencing it firsthand.)

“I get what you’re trying to do,” Hermann admits, trying so very hard to say it patiently and not unkindly, “but you’re wrong.”

Monica’s not having any of this placating bullshit and stops him right there. “You know you’re in deep shit and you’re still not running away; it makes me doubt your intellect.”

Newton’s abrupt entrance abruptly cuts off whatever ugly words he’s about to sling in Monica’s direction. The biologist is followed by his rather disgruntled cousin, Ursula, who looks alternately apologetic and pissed off. Her red mouth is twisted in a rare grimace and she’s nervously twisting the dark spirals of her hair. Everyone is so tense, everyone except Newt.

“Mom, I can’t find my Tim Buckley albums,” Newton announces, the whining reminiscent of a child a quarter of his age. 

Hermann slumps in his seat, completely sapped of energy, noting the way Monica leans forward very slightly and gives a very convincing performance as if nothing is amiss. It’s sickening, listening to her calmly talk to her son after everything she just said about him.

Monica purses her lips. “How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”

“Not since I lived in Boston,” Newt replies. “Ursula told me they were unpacked as soon as I shipped them out. They should be here somewhere.”

“Oh, _those_ Tim Buckley albums,” Monica practically sings. “I may have accidentally sold them. If they’re not in the cabinet beside the fireplace then I’m afraid I did.”

The look on Newton’s face falls somewhere between comical and heartbreaking, and he shuffles off to the living room with reluctant purpose. Ursula follows dutifully, turning one last time to glare at Monica pointedly and mutter something unflattering.

“So I suppose there’s a reason she called you a ‘fucking goddamned liar’?” Hermann drawls.

Monica frowns, tossing an ugly look at the door her niece just disappeared through. “I just needed him to go sulk for a few minutes so we could finish our conversation. I couldn’t tell Ursula where they are or she’d turn them over in a second—she just knows they’re somewhere in the apartment. I actually put them in the pantry. Stop looking at me like that; I would never sell a Tim Buckley album, Hermann.”

“You are a _terrible person!_ ” Hermann informs her, completely floored by her utter lack of any visible reaction. He’s fairly certain that insulting her appearance or décor would produce completely different results.

“Are you expecting an argument?”

“Why go through the trouble of trying to protect your son when you clearly have no compunctions about lying to him or saying horrible things about him? These aren’t things you do to people you love!”

Monica’s laugh is cold and leaden. “I don’t do these things because I want to. I don’t like causing him pain. I may be a spiteful person, but never to Newton. The lies are for his own good and the horrible things I say are all true.”

A splash of Scotch lands in the glass, her pour so elegant and practiced that he almost doesn’t see how her hand trembles when she sets the bottle down. The clink of melting ice as it trickles to the bottom of the glass is the only sound in the room, and Hermann is surprised when she pushes it towards him, her green eyes meeting his.

“Hermann, I haven’t seen my son much since the kaiju appeared—even less than I’ve seen him his entire life. And for the first five of those years the only thing he really talked about besides kaiju was a brilliant German mathematician living halfway around the world that he’d never met. I’m not stupid; I knew what it meant even if he didn’t. It takes a lot for him to get excited about something, even more for him to get excited about _someone_. But I knew what was coming as soon as he told me your name. I didn’t say a word. This one instance aside, I don’t meddle in my son’s life. Any mistakes are his to make. He doesn’t listen to reason or ask for advice, and any time someone tries to correct him or counsel him he acts against them automatically whether it’s in his best interest or not. It would only get worse if I spoke up, so I said nothing.”

“Things went just the way you thought, then,” Hermann admits grudgingly. “Because you knew my father, you thought I’d be just like him.”

“I wasn’t happy about being right, you know,” Monica informs him. “I never am, but that’s usually because I’m cynical and when I’m right, it’s generally a bad thing for everyone.”

Hermann does know exactly what that’s like. The alcohol burns its way down his throat, but it’s cherished—a pain he’s familiar with. It dulls the sting of her words just the slightest bit, and he’ll take what he can get.

“I watched you stamp out that bright, beautiful spot you created in my son’s life. He’d always cared about his work more than anything—was always focused and hungry—but he was different afterwards, vicious and wounded. When he told us he’d be working with you in Hong Kong for the foreseeable future, Jacob had hoped you’d somehow reach a truce and maybe he could move on. I knew better. Every time he’d tell us about work, it was less about kaiju and more about Doctor Gottlieb shooting down his ideas and criticizing his theories. For five years in Hong Kong before the breach was closed, I heard about you all over again. And it was different than before.”

Hermann refuses to let himself feel shame. Newton was hardly blameless. They fought each other; it was give and take. There was no clear victim or provoker. One of them would say something and the other would attack it. It was _mutual_.

“The first time you let down my son he ran off to the Vladivostok Shatterdome to clear his head and forget you, and he didn’t come home for three years. One could argue the same man never came back at all. The second time you let down my son he strapped himself into a trash heap and nearly died—and he did it alone just to prove you wrong. What’s he going to do the next time? You say he’s the way he is because of me, and you’re not mistaken. But he’s also the way he is because of _you_ , and I won’t ever let you forget that.”

The cold metal top of his cane brushes his fingertips, and Hermann realizes Monica is extending it towards him. Nothing she ever does is genuinely conciliatory, but he’s learning that when it comes to her, he has to be like Newton and not ask too many questions. There are no words of dismissal offered or goodbyes uttered, so he takes his leave, stalking down the hallway feeling so much more tired than before. As he opens the pantry door, he overhears Newton tearing apart the living room and arguing frantically with Ursula. Scanning the shelves, he finds what he’s looking for.

“She kept them with the record player in the dining room as far as I know,” Ursula repeats helplessly for the fifth time. “I don’t know what she was talking about when she mentioned the cabinet by the fireplace—she would never keep records near a heat source like that, she knows better. They’ve got to be here somewhere, Newt, she’d never sell them.”

“Ugh, Monica fucking Schwartz,” Newton grumbles, and it’s not the first time Hermann’s heard him say it. He finally understands how someone can sound so completely disgusted by someone they really do love. 

(He imagines he sounds the same when he’s griping about Newton.)

Dropping a stack of vinyl records wrapped in plastic onto the coffee table announces his presence quite nicely. In his frantic state Newton completely missed the tap of his cane and jumps about a foot in the air when he realizes Hermann has managed to sneak up behind him.

“Dude, where did you find these?” It’s a nice recovery, Hermann admits, admiring the way Newton resists the urge to clutch his pearls or squawk indignantly, though his eyes are a little dazed.

“They were between the rice and the pop tarts.”

Something changes on Newton’s face suddenly. Without a word he abruptly exits the room, leaving Ursula and Hermann alone. Her dark eyes meet his and she looks like she’s getting really bad second hand embarrassment from her aunt and cousin. Hermann knows they’re the only family she’s got and he really knows that feeling, the hopeless one where it seems like you’re tethered to a sinking ship or a stuck in the orbit of a dying star or tied irrevocably through an alien mind meld to Newton Geiszler. The only thing that could be possibly worse is being stuck with Monica Schwartz. Ursula actually facepalms when the strains of an argument finally make their way into the living room where they’re standing. 

“I’d apologize on Aunt Monica's behalf but she would just resent that,” Ursula admits.

“Quite,” Hermann agrees. 

Ursula motions him into the kitchen and pours him a glass of bourbon. It’s nowhere as expensive as Monica’s, but it’s still very fine and the company is preferable. Most men would probably kill for a drink with Ursula Geiszler, rich and beautiful and interesting, but now, in this moment, she’s just another person that loves and cares about Newton, and the world can never have too many of those.

They sit in comfortably shared silence at first, but the peace doesn’t last. They try not to wince at the sound of glass breaking or doors slamming. By the time Newton rushes back to him announcing “get your coat!” he’s not surprised in the slightest. Hermann tucks the Tim Buckley records under his arm and shoots Ursula one last commiserating glance before turning away and climbing after Newton into a yellow taxi. She lifts her hand in a solemn salute before disappearing back inside, no doubt to fetch a broom and dustpan for the glass Monica will undoubtedly refuse to clean up.

For once he’s quiet as he listens to Newton, doesn’t play devil’s advocate or tell him to tone down his language in front of the cab driver. The pain in his leg is agonizing but he still manages to lose himself in the familiar way Newton’s waving hands tell about forty percent of the story. Newton knows better than to take them out, but he still stares at his albums through the clear plastic wistfully. The covers are noticeably marked and the edges no longer pristine, but Hermann appreciates that about Newton—that he collects things but he uses them. His toys are out of their packages and the posters are tacked messily onto the walls and the records are actually played instead of sitting in their sleeves and staying mint. Hermann recalls how he derided him for burning through money and not even taking care of the things he bought.

But the thing about Newton is that he keeps things forever and appreciates the memories associated with them. Hermann knows if he offered to replace his ancient Tim Buckley albums with new ones Newton would never want them. Newton is protective of things that he feels belong to him, not because they’re material but because of the feelings they invoke. Hermann remembers how he acted after their disastrous meeting in 2017. He purged all the emails and erased thousands of IMs and burned every letter. 

Newton did none of those things. 

Hermann knows that from the Drift. Newton did eventually delete their digital correspondence, but only after meticulously saving copies of every single message. The letters were packed away, not forgotten and always safe. It’s easy to think of Newton as a wanton force of destruction but when it comes to burning bridges, Hermann’s always been better. He’s perfected the clean break. Newton hasn't, and it's the reason why his wounds never quite heal right. 

It’s tough, the burden of making himself responsible for the health and happiness of someone who can be fine one minute and decidedly _not_ fine the next. But whether he’s known it or not, he’s been doing that since he replied to Newton’s first letter. Monica’s wrong; there’s never going to be a good time to leave. It’s always been too late.

Newton is like Monica in a lot of ways, but Hermann knows when Newton inevitably leaves it won’t be because he’s scared. Rock stars die young, and Hermann will be alone again. But Newton’s face isn’t on the cover of a record; it’s behind his eyelids when he blinks and in his heart after getting closer to him than he’s ever wanted to be to anyone, ever. He can’t quite scrub the ghost from the back of his mind, the one that makes him crave foods he doesn’t like or know the ending of movies he's never seen.

“I am going to make you listen to every single one of these when we get back,” Newton promises.

Denying him the expected objections, Hermann hums acquiescence. He doesn’t really have strong thoughts on Tim Buckley, has never really listened to him. Despite his protests, Newton’s vast taste in music isn’t completely dreadful; Hermann actually enjoys some of it. But it’s so instinctual, to automatically reject Newt’s ideas, and he kind of hates that. A decade of missed opportunities always lies between them, something he never fails to stop seeing every time he sees Newton smile or hears him laugh. He’s the only one that can hurt Newton now, and he can’t promise that he’ll be able to stop, only that he’ll try.

A tug on his sleeve is almost too gentle to be Newton. “Hey Hermann, I’m really sorry about my mom.”

Unable to bring himself to say, “that’s okay,” (because it’s really not) Hermann just nods. Having a difficult and embarrassing parent is something he’s painfully familiar with. At least she has Newton’s best interest at heart. Sort of.

“She really does care, in her own way,” Hermann admits. It’s more than he can say about his father. “I feel bad for your poor cousin, though.”

“Unlike me, Ursula got the best of her parents,” Newt mutters sardonically. “I just got all crazy parts from mine. Ursula doesn’t look like much of a Geiszler, but she’s got it where it counts.”

And Hermann can’t help thinking of poor Jacob tolerating and somehow loving Monica Schwartz, an epic, decades-long romance full of pining and rejections and patience and surprises. It reminds him that despite all of Newton’s constant string of half-hearted complaints that run the gamut from Hermann’s clothing to his diet, he hasn’t left. Saving the world no longer ties them together, but Newton’s still—

“I love you, you know.” 

Hermann can’t help it, he just blurts it out. Luckily (although rather scarily) the cab driver is texting and completely misses this relationship milestone. Newton’s hands go slack and the records slide onto the cheap vinyl interior between them. It doesn’t matter that Newton doesn’t say it back, because Hermann knows that one day he will. He can wait for this. 

Newton’s head is tilted away from him but Hermann can see a smile at the corner of his mouth. Leaning his head back, Hermann’s fingers tug the stack of albums into his lap. He pretends that he’s already familiar with the lyrics of “Song to the Siren” when they start to seep into his brain. He doesn’t quite notice Newton’s fingers tapping out the same rhythm on his left thigh less than two feet away when he thinks that sometimes Monica may be right to worry, but everything's going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't really write crack of fluff, so this is just weird and angsty, I guess. 
> 
> Song title from Sufjan Stevens' "For the Widows in Paradise, for the Fatherless in Ypsilanti." I prefer the cover by The Good Natured, but both are excellent.


End file.
